


All I Want for Christmas is [for you to wear this stupid hat in our holiday pictures, PLEASE Derek] You

by SassyStarboard



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: (half-Jewish), Adorable Stiles Stilinski, Alternate Universe - Domestic, Christmas, Christmas Fluff, Christmas Tree, Derek Hale is a Softie, Established Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski, Everyone Is Alive, Everyone Is Gay, F/F, F/M, Family Feels, Fluff, Fluff and Humor, Humor, Jewish Stiles Stilinski, M/M, Minor Isaac Lahey/Scott McCall, Minor Vernon Boyd/Erica Reyes, Movie Night, No Angst, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Pack Dynamics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-01
Updated: 2020-12-12
Packaged: 2021-03-10 04:20:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 9,782
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27828148
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SassyStarboard/pseuds/SassyStarboard
Summary: Holiday presents, baking fails, overly tacky decorating, gingerbread themed innuendo, Christmas tree themed innuendo, and so much more!Derek secretly loves Christmas and grumpily knits everybody stockings, Stiles is half Jewish and determined to make Derek enjoy the holiday season.
Relationships: Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski, Isaac Lahey/Scott McCall, Minor or Background Relationship(s), Other Relationship Tags to Be Added, Scott McCall & Stiles Stilinski, Vernon Boyd/Erica Reyes
Comments: 29
Kudos: 92





	1. Christmas Tree

**Author's Note:**

> Hi!!! I’ve never tried to do a fic like this before so I am desperately hoping I manage to do all the days but if I fall behind somehow then I sincerely apologize. Be prepared for so many days of Sterek adorableness!!!! This isn’t for any challenge, I just thought it would be fun. Lmk if you have any cute ideas!!

Stiles didn’t know why Derek was so bad at this. Even without werewolf strength, pushing something through an open door should be criminally easy. Particularly if said door was the door to their huge, estate-sized house. Sadly, Derek seemed determined to embarrass him.

“Push!” Stiles commanded. He was inside the house and gripping the top of their new Christmas tree with both hands, letting all of his weight fall back as they tried to fit it through. It was ten feet tall at _least_ , absurdly thick, and up until this exact moment Stiles had felt extremely proud with his tree-choosing abilities.

“I am . . .  _ pushing _ , Stiles.” Derek groaned at him from outside their door, struggling on the other side of the tree. “It just . . . it won’t . . .  _ fit _ . I told you to pick a smaller one. It’s too big for this opening.”

“Heh. That’s what she—ow!” Stiles gave a strong, final tug but fell backward, tripping back onto the couch and leaving a mess of pine needles in his wake. Derek had stopped pushing, and Stiles had been left to suffer the consequences of the tree’s sudden lack of momentum. Stiles managed to sit up in time to see Derek duck his head in through the front window a few feet away, scowling when he saw Stiles sitting on the couch.

“Seriously?” Derek rolled his eyes, then disappeared back out the window, grumbling. “This shouldn’t be this hard.”

“That’s what she said!” Stiles laughed, wheezing.

“Who?” Derek stuck his head back inside, distracted. The base of the tree—the part that was wedged in the doorway—was so large that it completely blocked the doorway from view. Derek had no other way to talk to him. 

“Ugh. Nevermind.” Stiles sighed, starting to push himself to his feet. He repositioned himself at the tip of the tree, making a show of gripping it with both his arms. Derek disappeared again. Then the tree started shaking again and Stiles fell right back over. 

“Ow! Hey! Derek!” Stiles called back, pouting—he felt like a human bowling pin. Whining, Stiles swung himself back onto his feet. He carefully stepped over the top of the tree, then made his way around to the window and climbed out onto the front porch. Derek watched him unhappily as he made his way over.

“I can’t believe you impaled me with our Christmas tree.” Stiles pouted, trying and failing to pick all of the pine needles off of his jacket.

“ _ I _ can’t believe I let you talk me into buying this skyscraper.” Derek grumbled, his arms crossed as he glared at the giant pine tree currently blocking their entryway. At least, Stiles  _ thought  _ his arms were crossed. The base of the tree was so large it created a physical barrier between them—from Stiles’ point of view, everything below Derek’s shoulders disappeared from his line of sight. Derek, he suspected, probably couldn’t see much more than his head.

“It’s not a  _ skyscraper _ , you’re just grouchy.” Stiles told him.

“I’m  _ grouchy  _ because the biggest Christmas tree in the county is stuck in my doorway.” Derek countered. “You barely even celebrate Christmas!”

“I do too!  _ Halfsies _ , Derek!” Stiles argued. “I’m best of both worlds! Besides,  _ someone _ had to step in. All the trees you were stopping at looked like that pathetic little Charlie Brown one! Ten inch Christmas trees do not properly convey my holiday spirit!”

“Well, when the ten foot inflatable menorah you ordered comes in, I’ll be sure to blow it all the way up before trying to fit it through our door!” Derek fired back. Stiles made a face, because that was the tackiest thing he’d ever heard of.   


“We—that’s not the point! We need a strong tree, Derek!” He argued, huffy. “Malia wrecked the cutesy mid-size one we got last year, we need—”

“That wasn’t Malia’s fault and you know it.” Derek reminded him. “If you’re going to blame someone, you should blame Scott for breaking up with her right before the full moon. That tree would’ve been fine if she hadn’t taken her frustrations out on our “angry” Christmas lights.” 

“ . . . fine.” Stiles’ eyes narrowed. “But considering everyone who so much as looks in the direction of our house is capable of mass wolfy destruction, I think ol’ Rockefeller here was the way to go.” 

Derek raised an eyebrow. “Speaking as someone who’s actually been in the vicinity of Rockefeller Center, I can confidently say the size of that tree nowhere near compares to this one.”

“Oh man.” Stiles paused thinking. “You’re right. We should have gotten a bigger tree, what if—”

“No that is not what I’m saying.” Derek said, grunting as he picked up the back end of the tree. “And it’s your fault we’re in this mess, so shut up and help me cram this thing in there.”

Stiles grinned, waggling his eyebrows. “That’s what she said.”

“Who?” Derek demanded, dropping the tree. “Where am I in this scenario? What  _ she _ do you keep talking about?”

“I-I don’t know . . . Erica?” Stiles shrugged. Derek paused, thinking. 

“ . . . yeah, that makes sense.”

“I know, right?”


	2. Gingerbread

“Run run run, as fast as you can. You can’t eat me because  _ I’ll eat you first!! Arrrrgh!” _

Derek watched fondly as his boyfriend used a heavily-frosted wolf cookie to smash one of their extra gingerbread men to pieces. The two of them were taking advantage of their rare free evening; the kitchen island had been turned into a prep area for their entry into the sheriff’s stations’ annual gingerbread house contest. Stiles, who had the focus of a kindergartener when it came to sugar (and the decorating skills to match), had graciously let Derek take the lead on their creation. 

“Baby, look—” Stiles held up the wolf cookie, it’s frosting coat now flecked with the crumbs of it’s enemies, “—look, Cookie Derek devoured those who dared oppose us. Isn’t he the cutest?”

“So cute.” Derek agreed distractedly. Derek was in the zone, and right now his primary focus was on the roof of their gingerbread house as he carefully pressed wafer shingles into the frosting. Stiles observed Derek’s laser-focus and quieted down out of respect for the craft. Derek’s keen eye for decorating skills was indispensable to their dream team, and Stiles  _ refused _ to lose to Greenberg this year . . . god knows it was embarrassing enough the first time.

Thankfully, Derek—who had grown up with a family that had made gingerbread houses every year at Christmas time—was a practiced master decorator but couldn’t bake to save his life. Stiles—who had been cooking for his dad since he was ten—was amazing at baking but was much more interested in eating frosting than decorating with it. They filled in each other’s weak spots, and together they made an unstoppable machine.

For now, two houses sat on their kitchen counter—Derek’s beautiful competition house, and Stiles’ Super Mega Tasty Awesome Haunted Mansion. Stiles’ house was a masterpiece for the ages, with chocolate gelt shingles pressed into the roof and leftover Halloween gummy ghosts crammed into the chimney while Cookie Derek stalked the perimeter, valiantly protecting Cookie Pack. Holiday music played quietly in the background, forming a gentle atmosphere enhanced with the soft peals of  _ Carol of the Bells _ . 

Stiles smiled at Derek with sugary green teeth, beaming as he watched him paint a frosting wreath onto the front of their gingerbread house. The competition house was classically decorated, beautifully detailed, and included approximately zero expired Halloween candy. It was gorgeous, every bit of the house painstakingly decorated in red, white, and green with the steady hand of a skilled froster. 

Derek pursed his lips, standing half bent over the counter as he focused on frosting the windows. Beside him, Stiles openly drooled as Derek’s brows knitted together in concentration, making a cute little furrow that Stiles very badly wanted to kiss. He would have, too, if he wasn’t so terrified of startling Derek and ruining their masterpiece. 

The corner of Derek’s mouth had a bit of chocolate from where Stiles had kissed him after eating the last of their Thanksgiving pie during set up. Derek didn’t know it was there.

It was all unbearably soft. 

“Red.” Derek said suddenly, drawing back from the gingerbread house. Stiles glanced out of the corner of his eye at the left sleeve of Derek’s long sleeve tee, where there were smudges of red frosting from where the fabric had met the mess left over from Stiles’ painfully realistic cookie massacre. Derek had warned Stiles that he would be in charge of cleanup by himself if he kept it up, but Stiles refused to apologize for art.

“What?” Stiles, who had been engrossed in putting the finishing touches on an extremely detailed Cookie Lydia, looked up from his tray.

“I want red frosting to outline the window panes.” Derek said. “Do we have any left or were you too generous when you drew all that blood on Fake Jackson?”

“Voodoo cookies are an up-and-coming branch of witchcraft.” Stiles said seriously.

“Of course.” Derek nodded.

“But here, I’ll trade you.” Stiles said, handing over the red piping bag and taking the purple from the other side of the counter. “I need the purple for Cookie Lydia’s earrings.”

Derek paused, piping bag halfway to the windows. He set it down, visibly concerned. “Stiles, they . . . the cookies, they don’t have ears.”

“Not with that attitude.” Stiles countered, tongue darting out as he leaned down to draw tiny purple flowers on the sides of Lydia’s head. Derek’s gaze fell to Stiles’ mouth, his attention instantly drawn. Derek stepped to the side, moving behind Stiles and wrapping his arms around Stiles’ waist. Stiles hummed, pleased, and tilted his head back. He set the frosting down before turning around. Then he laughed in Derek’s face.

“Oh, you’ve still, uh, there’s a bit of chocolate.” Stiles reached up and touched the corner of his own mouth. “Just there.”

“Stiles, if you want to kiss me, all you have to do is ask.” Derek grinned. Stiles snorted, then brought his hand up and used his thumb to wipe away the chocolate. He wiggled his thumb, and Derek ducked his head, embarrassed. “Ah.”

“ _ Ah _ .” Stiles mocked, carefully sucking the chocolate off the pad of his thumb. Derek reached up and pulled Stiles’ thumb out of his mouth, unable to let him get away with it, and kissed him softly, sweetly.

“Tease.” Derek admonished. Stiles winked.

“Say, Derek,” He grinned, “think you’ve got chocolate anywhere else?”

“You’re disgusting.”

“You  _ love _ it!”


	3. Mistletoe

“ _ Please _ ?” Stiles presented his newest prize with the joy of Christmas spirit glittering in his eyes.

“I said no, Stiles.” Derek repeated, now remembering with vivid detail why he’d stopped inviting Stiles to come shopping with him. 

The toy Stiles was holding was an overstuffed, multi-antlered,  _ Hanukkah reindeer _ . A tacky paradox at best and horrendously offensive at worst. Fortunately for Derek, the cart is completely full and Stiles loved trashy holiday toys too much to put any of them back. The cart was already filled with the absolute gaudiest holiday decorations to ever see the light of day, but Derek  _ had _ to draw the line somewhere.

“Derek, he lights up!” Stiles begged, shaking the toy. It jingled frantically, terrifying Derek further.

“We’re here to buy decorations for the outside of our house,” Derek said firmly, “not browse through the bargain bin of misfit toys.”

When Derek went shopping he made lists, planned grocery routes, and exited stores in a timely fashion. Stiles, on the other hand, could no longer legally participate in Black Friday while within the boundaries of Beacon County.

“I can’t hear you!” Stiles sang. He slipped across the aisle towards a wall of Disney ornaments, the polka-dotted reindeer tucked safely under his arm. Stiles hummed happily, wiggling his fingers towards the display as he caught sight of a sparkling silver Death Star. Derek sighed—he had long since given up trying to reign in Stiles, he’d be a fool to try to start now.

Derek checked his list, scanning the little slip of paper he’d brought into the store with them. Only two items remained—a Christmas wreath for their front door, and (written in Stiles’ handwriting)  _ mistletoe _ . Derek pursed his lips, then squinted at the list to double check. Yup. Stiles, who lived in a house that existed in a near constant state of being filled with werewolves, had written _ mistletoe _ . Derek checked again and found a heart dotting the i. 

“Stiles?” Derek looked up and was met with the sight of Stiles holding a handheld shopping cart, absorbed in the process of loading it up with Star Wars ornaments. “Stiles!”

“Yes, my dearest?” Stiles fluttered his eyelashes, glittery Darth Vader figurine in hand.

“Is there a reason you put mistletoe on our shopping list?” Derek asked pointedly.

“For kisses.” Stiles said brightly, hopeful. He quickly placed the Darth Vader ornament into his handcart then set it down on the floor of the store, using his foot to nudge it behind his legs. The picture of innocence. Derek pushed their cart over to him with a sigh, but said nothing. If only because Stiles looked insufferably cute when he was being underhanded. Still—

“You added mistletoe?” Derek gestured to the list. “Stiles, we can’t have mi—”

“Well no duh.” Stiles rolled his eyes, leaning forward to rest his arms on the front of the shopping cart. “ _ Obviously _ I don’t mean  _ real _ mistletoe. Do I look like a dumbass to you?”

“To me? Never.” Derek promised. “To others? Very, very frequently.”

“Asshole.” Stiles stuck his tongue out at his boyfriend. They grinned at each other. “Anyway most stores sell plastic mistletoe and holly and stuff, I figured we could pick up a box of it and  _ voila _ ! Kisses! I’m warning you now, Der-Bear. I will be nailing this stuff to every door frame in our house. You will not be able to escape my love.”

“ _ Every _ doorway? Isn’t that a bit unfair?” Derek said. “A lot of people frequent our spare rooms, Stiles. What if, say, Kira and Erica ended up next to each other on their way to the shower?”

“Well Derek, I’m not gonna lie to you,” Stiles said seriously, “that would be extremely hot and who am I to prevent the true meaning of Christmas from coming to fruition?”

“What about you and Scott then?” Derek suggested. Instantly, Stiles’ scheming expression turned sour. He made a retching noise in the back of his throat, shaking his head as if the movement would prevent the mental image of kissing Scott from entering his brain.

“Oh, ughhh. Eww. Gross. No.” Stiles shook his head. “Okay, you win. Changed my mind. Bedroom only.  _ Our  _ bedroom, specifically.” He paused thoughtfully. “Also the kitchen, maybe . . . and the front door, but that’s it.”

“I don’t need an excuse to kiss my boyfriend.” Derek said. Stiles gave a dramatic groan.

“It’s not an  _ excuse _ , Der.” Stiles said. “The mistletoe simply provides additional opportunities. It’s tradition! It goes back ages! Kissing under the mistletoe was serious business in Victorian England, Derek. You’re not gonna diss Victorian England, are you, Mr. History Buff?”

“I will on this occasion, yes, because most people believe the tradition of kissing under the mistletoe originated from Greek wedding ceremonies due to of the plant's association with fertility.” Derek told him. “The goddess of fertility, more specifically. Is there something you want to tell me, Stiles?”

“Am I pregnant? Is that what you’re asking?” Stiles said, deadpan. “Yes, Derek. I, a man, am with child. Please make adequate preparations.”

“Actually,” Derek fought to keep a straight face, “alpha werewolves have the unique ability to—”

“What? Stop! No!” Stiles covered his ears. “No! La-la-la-la-la! Not possible! Derek, I  _ refuse  _ to relive all the gross websites I found when I was researching Scott’s transformation,  _ Derek _ . Do  _ not _ do this to me!”

“But Stiles,” Derek said sincerely, “werewolf mating rituals are nothing to joke about. As the mother of my children, you have a responsibility—”

“I take it back!” Stiles picked up his hand cart and started speed-walking away. “It’s not funny anymore! I take it back!”

Derek followed him, laughing to himself as he pushed the cart.

Stiles’ ugly Hanukkah reindeer was sitting in the child's seat, buckled in beside a topless Santa in a hula skirt.


	4. Glitter

Glitter. Glitter everywhere.

An over-the-top, straight-as-an-arrow Hallmark movie is playing on the television, the actors clothing casting a faint red and green light over the living room where Derek and Stiles are stretched out in the seating area. The volume of the movie is fairly low; neither of them care enough to pay attention and both of them are working on far more important tasks.

“What’s Lydia’s favorite color?”

“Hmm?” Stiles tilts his head back to look up at Derek—Stiles is sitting on the floor in front of the ottoman while Derek is stretched out behind him on the couch.

“Lydia’s favorite color.” Derek repeats. He’s knitting, because Stiles is dating an elderly man who likes to play with tiny knives. It's calming for him, Stiles thinks, and his skill is honest-to-god impressive—when Derek had tried to teach Stiles it had  _ not _ gone well. It’s helplessly soft too, because Stiles pokes fun at him sometimes but he knows how much Derek likes it. He is knitting everyone’s Christmas stockings, after all.

“Purple.” Stiles says firmly, pointing to the purple skein of yarn. There’s a cluster of miniature googly eyes stuck to the back of his knuckles.

“Purple.” Derek echoes, then leans to the side and reaches over the end of the couch to pull the shimmering purple yarn out of his basket. “You’ve got a spider on your hand, by the way.”

“ _ What _ ?!” Stiles yelps, jumping up and shaking both of his hands frantically. The affixed googly eyes fling themselves into the abyss of their carpet. Stiles sees them fly off out of the corner of his eye, then stops dancing and looks at his hand with wide eyes. The sole remaining google eye taunts him.

“ _ Spider _ .” Stiles mocks bitterly, flapping his hand in Derek’s face. Derek laughs at him. Stiles pries the offending piece of plastic off his hand and sticks it to Derek’s forehead. “I hate you.”

“Come on Mischief, you’ve got to be  _ open-minded _ to date someone with a third eye.” Derek grins eagerly. Stiles bites his lip, absurdly proud of him. Derek Hale is making  _ puns _ . Who would have thought, huh? 

Watching Derek be himself is one of Stiles’ favorite things in the whole world. The two of them have been sitting in the living room watching Hallmark movie after Hallmark movie for hours now, and Derek looks like he’s never been happier. But the  _ puns _ . It’s funny and not funny at the same time. Stiles is one of the few people who gets to see the real Derek and, as it turns out, the real Derek is an enormous dork. 

It’s pretty freakin’ amazing.

In the spirit of drama, Stiles groans and collapses back onto the floor.

“I’ve taught you too well.” He moans. Then he sits up abruptly, because he’d thrown his head back into his workstation and now he can feel glitter in his hair. Stiles scratches the back of his head, then reaches up and pulls the googly eye off of Derek’s face.

Crafts are always messy but thanks to Stiles, their carpet will probably have pipe-cleaner fuzz in it until New Years. He’s getting ready for school next week—piles of ziploc bags, paper cutouts, pipe-cleaners, and yes, glitter, are spread out all over their ottoman. Teaching second graders has its hazards, and one of those hazards is dealing with glitter. 

He’s making Christmas ornament kits, for Friday when the kids’ school pictures come in. Stiles had made sure to print out Hanukkah pages too, and hopefully the scratch art dreidels he’d ordered online would arrive in time because he’d  _ loved _ those things as a kid. He  _ still  _ loves them. Scratch art is cool as fuck.

“You have a sticker on your neck.” Derek informs him. Stiles feels something being pulled from his skin. Seconds later, Derek is holding a miniature cartoon Santa in front of his face. Stiles takes it from him and presses it onto a piece of scrap paper.

“Thank you.” Stiles says. Derek scritches the base of Stiles’ neck with his blunt nails. Stiles leans back, letting his head rest on the side of Derek’s knee.

“Mm hmm.” Derek hums absently, laying back down. He’s already returned to the stocking.

“How many more of those are you making?” Stiles asks. He turns so he can watch Derek’s thinking face. Derek’s adorable, and it’s worth it.

“Three.” Derek tells him after thinking for a bit. “I have everyone but Kira, Lydia, and your dad.”

“My dad?” Stiles turns, beaming. Derek nods without looking up, focused on the toe of Lydia’s stocking.

“Yeah. I made his green, but I redid his base pattern to match Melissa’s even though hers is pink. Like how yours matches mine and—oh! Ow. Ow.”

Stiles had flopped onto the couch without warning to drape himself across Derek in a full body hug. Derek desperately wants to appreciate it, but—

“Stiles, the needles.” Derek grits out. “The  _ knitting needles _ , Stiles, you need to—”

“Oh! Oh man, sorry! I’m sorry!” Stiles sits up quickly, using his hands to brace himself on either side of Derek’s head while Derek carefully moves the needles and Lydia’s barely-started stocking to a nearby couch cushion.

“Ah.” Derek breathes out, settling back into the couch. Stiles cringes, apologetic.

“I’m sorry, baby.” Stiles pouts. “Are you okay? Is there a puncture wound? Did I hurt your six pack?” Stiles rubs Derek’s abs, partly to check for injuries but mostly because his boyfriend is  _ smokin’ _ .

Derek reaches up, running his thumb over Stiles’ cheek.

“Yes, I’m mortally wounded.” Derek drags his hand through Stiles’ hair before pulling him in close, wrapping his arms around his upper body. “Save me.”

“I got you, Der.” Stiles promises, his words muffled by Derek’s neck. “Don’t worry, baby. I got you.”


	5. Santa Hat

Derek stared down his enemy, glaring furiously as he eyed the offending object before him. It was an insult to his character to ask such an utterly degrading task of someone so distinguished. Truly, the sheer lack of self-respect required for such an act was almost too much to bear.

“Derek, please, it would be the cutest thing in the world and I’ll never ask you for anything else ever ever again Derek  _ please _ .” Stiles begged, clutching an oversized Santa hat to his chest.

“Over my dead body.” Derek snarled.

“Oh my god, you  _ suck _ .” Stiles groaned, exasperated. “What is the point of having a boyfriend who can turn into a giant fluffy dog—”

“I am  _ not _ a dog.”

“—if he won’t pose for your Christmas card pictures!” Stiles finished. He flopped to the frost-covered ground, severely put out, and let out a frustrated whine.

The edge of the preserve was quiet in the afternoon. It was brisk in the cold December air, and the tree line made a perfect backdrop for Stiles’ holiday card vision. There were three of them—Stiles in a red and white reindeer sweater, Derek standing beside him in a glittery green monstrosity, and the only person Stiles trusted to not make fun of them standing a few feet away with the camera.

“Sweetheart,” Melissa looked down at her step-son with a chiding look, “if Derek doesn’t want to take the pictures then that’s his choice.”

“But,” Stiles sat up, the Santa hat falling into his lap, “but Mel, he would look so  _ precious _ .”

“A real dog might.” Derek groused, arms crossed. “I barely agreed to these itchy Walmart sweaters, you’re not getting me to shift for our Christmas card and you are  _ certainly  _ not putting my wolf in a cheap Santa hat.” 

“Oh!” Melissa let out a short laugh, then immediately clamped her mouth shut. Derek turned to her with an unhappy expression. She held up her hands in defense, the camera around her neck swinging a bit as she let it go. “Oh honey, I’m sorry.”

Stiles huffed. “I can’t believe you led me on like this.”

“You ambushed me!” Derek pointed a gloved finger at him. “At no point during our walk here did you say you were expecting me to be a wolf on our Christmas card. Where would  _ I  _ have been? You know what that looks like? If I’m not there? It looks like you spending Christmas alone with the world’s scariest rescue dog because your boyfriend was too busy to take pictures with you.”

“Photoshop!” Stiles protested. “Derek, if I can’t photoshop one person onto a relatively empty backdrop then what did I even learn photoshop for?”

“Is that why you and Scott were astronauts in the last photo you sent me?” Melissa frowned, thinking back to the influx of emails she’d received starring pictures of her sons exploring outer space beside a team of velociraptors.

“Unrelated!” Stiles declared much too quickly. He leapt up, kissing Melissa on the cheek before bounding over to Derek. “Now, if  _ someone  _ would just—”

“No, Stiles.” Derek said firmly. Stiles gloomily took in Derek’s irritated expression—demon eyebrows and all—and wisely chose not to push the issue.

“ _ Fine _ .” Stiles groused. “But we’re gonna look super lame without a giant wolf next to us.”

“I don’t think so.” Melissa said, reaching forward to brush the remaining grass off of Stiles’ slacks and straighten Derek’s sweater. “Call me crazy, but I think regular Stiles and regular Derek is a pretty cute combo. Wouldn’t you agree?”

“Hmmmph.” Stiles pouted, dejected. Derek scowled at him.

“ _ Stiles _ .” Melissa warned, pointing at him with her camera. Stiles gave a big, over-the-top sigh.

“ _ Yes _ ,  _ Mom _ . Regular Derek is awesome and I love my super special boyfriend very much.”Stiles said wearily. Then, turning to said boyfriend, “I . . . I’m sorry, Der. Obviously I would never make you do anything you didn’t want to do. I’ve just never sent out a Christmas card with a boyfriend before and I got too excited.” He moved over to Derek, standing on his tiptoes to kiss the top of Derek’s head.

“I love you baby.” Stiles beamed.

“I love you too.” Derek said, albeit a bit grouchily.

“ _ There _ we go.” Melissa nodded approvingly. She turned her camera back on and started to readjust the settings, attaching an extra lens filter designed to prevent eye flares. Stiles wrapped his arms around Derek, hooking his chin over Derek’s shoulder. Despite Stiles’ closeness, Derek struggled to smile for the camera. He hated posing.

“This photoshoot has a time limit.” Derek reminded him. “I look terrible in pictures.”

“Liar.” Stiles scoffed. “And if you think  _ you  _ look bad, imagine how I feel.”

“You chose a normal format for the card, right?” Derek pulled at his collar. “It’s not anything weird?” Stiles shushed him, reaching up to angle Derek’s face towards the camera.

“Smile for the camera, boys!” Melissa waved. Derek, suddenly fearful, did not.

“Stiles, it bothers me that you’re not answering.”

“. . . I’m guessing you won’t be a fan of the banner frame that says  _ Happy Hoooowlidays _ ?”

“It says  _ what _ ?”


	6. Candy Canes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Made it in under the wire! Man, I could have sworn I posted this way earlier then I checked and turns out I just forgot??? Yikes!! So sorry!!! If it makes up for it, I think this is the longest one yet AND the pack is here!! Yay! lmk what you think! (warning, gratuitious use of italics, lol)

Christmas candy was a terrible thing, Derek thought. It was cheap, tasteless, and nothing but empty calories. Candy canes, specifically, were a terrible thing. 

“God, I love peppermint.”

Derek watched as Stiles’ tongue swirled around the tip of the candy cane, licking and sucking. His mouth was absolutely sinful, and Derek didn’t know whether he wanted to throw out all the candy canes in the house or buy a dozen more boxes. Derek turned away and forced himself to stare forward at the television screen. Stiles knew exactly what he was doing and Derek refused to give him the satisfaction. Not that he could have if he’d let himself—they weren’t exactly alone.

“Could you eat that thing any louder?” Jackson snapped. “I can’t hear myself think.”

“As if anything could be more distracting than the echoing of your empty head.” Stiles scowled at him. Jackson rolled his eyes and scoffed loudly, which everyone in the room recognized as his version of sulking. Annoyed, Stiles carefully peeled the sticky wrapper off the end of his candy cane, then leaned forward and stuck it to Jackson’s neck.

“ _ Damn  _ it _ ,  _ Stiles!” Jackson jumped up, tearing the wrapper off and marching out of the living room; presumably to scrub his skin raw. Stiles cackled obnoxiously and returned to sucking the candy cane. He’d probably sharpened it into a point by now, but Derek was too afraid to look. 

Down the carpet, Erica growled at Jackson as he stepped over her and Boyd to get to the bathroom. Still, in Jackson’s defense, the floor was extremely crowded—Sundays were movie nights, and for once most of the pack had made it. Scott and Isaac were stretched out on the carpet beside Kira and Malia, while Boyd and Erica had claimed the spot closest to the TV. Sitting on the couch and lounging beside Jackson’s vacated space, Lydia sighed and leaned into Allison’s shoulder. Derek and Stiles sat across from them, holding hands in the dark while Stiles intentionally made Derek’s night a living hell.

“Don’t you just love peppermint?” Stiles asked brightly, sucking sticky red sugar off of his thumb. Derek didn’t growl at him like he wanted to, but it was a near thing. Stiles putting his mouth to such good use was truly a sight to behold, and when Stiles had moved from the candy to his fingers, Derek had given up on all pretenses of watching the movie.

“Do I love corn syrup and abhorrently artificial dye?” Derek said instead, his voice uncharacteristically hoarse. “Is that what you’re asking?”

“Well,” Stiles hummed, the picture of innocence, “other than a deep, primal hunger for peppermint swirl, I can’t  _ possibly  _ think of a single other reason for you to be staring at me like that.” 

Derek gritted his teeth, refusing to give in in the presence of their pack (as if they didn’t already know how mad Stiles drove him). Stiles frowned at his sticky hands and brought one of his fingers into his mouth, sucking at it in a lazy attempt to clean it off. Derek, gripping the arm of their couch like his life depended on it, felt his claws pierce the fabric. 

“Something wrong?” Stiles’ lower lip stuck out in a miniature pout. Derek wanted to bite it and scrape at it with his teeth.

“If you two don’t stop flirting, I’ll slice you open with my Louis Vuitton's.” Lydia threatened. “This is my second favorite movie, Stiles. Quit being a tease and quiet down.”

Stiles scoffed loudly, indignant. “I have  _ never _ —”

“Bat your eyelashes any louder and I’ll rip them off.” Jackson returned from the bathroom with the skin of his neck flushed and pink. Derek snarled at him, glaring fiercely until Stiles put a hand on his chest and held him back.

“Uh, you  _ wish  _ you had these lashes, Lizard Breath.” Stiles stuck his tongue out. Derek let out a quiet groan, one that was just sharp enough to pass for a growl,. Jackson sneered at them, seriously pissed off, but Lydia yanked him back down into his seat before he could retaliate. Stiles rubbed Derek’s chest. Derek took a deep breath, feeling the warmth of Stiles’ hand through his shirt and breathing in his scent. Stiles snuggled closer, the lingering smell of peppermint thick on his breath.

“Shut up, losers! I’ve never seen this!” Malia whacked Stiles with a pillow. Kira stifled her laugh by biting her fist. Erica gasped, personally offended, and clutched Boyd for support.

“You’ve  _ never _ seen  _ Love Actually _ ?” Scott demanded. Isaac patted Scott’s arm in an effort to soothe his distress.

“How have you never seen  _ Love Actually _ ?” Stiles gasped.

“Coyotes aren’t allowed in movie theaters?” Malia shrugged.

“Ah.” Scott managed, embarrassed. “Right.”

“ _ Right. _ ” Stiles echoed.

The pack quieted down after that—Malia having never seen the movie and Lydia’s threats of disembowelment had proved to be an effective behavioral tool. The movie played on with minimal interruptions, a charming Christmas love story with everyone draped over each other in the living room.

“ _ Derek _ .” Stiles whispered. Derek ignored him out of spite, but continued petting his hair. This, unfortunately, greatly diminished his intended effect. Stiles moved down to rest his head in Derek’s lap. “Derek, pay attention to me.”

“You know what you did.” Derek scolded. Stiles winked, his tongue darting out to lick his lips—he absolutely knew what he’d done and he was proud of himself, the little shit.

“What  _ I  _ did?” Stiles blinked innocently. “Whatever do you—oh!” Stiles gave a yelp of surprise as Derek heaved Stiles up into a sitting position and kissed him full on the mouth, chasing the taste of peppermint on his tongue. It was wonderfully rich and obscenely short, their kiss ending abruptly when Scott kicked Stiles in the leg and Stiles nearly fell out of Derek’s lap. Surprised, Stiles clutched Derek's arms _for support_.

"Hey!" Stiles kicked Scott back, vengeful. “Dude! What did I do to—”

“We  _ all  _ know what you did.” Boyd said finally. “ _ All _ of us. Now quit talking and just watch the stupid movie.”

“ _ Stupid _ ?” Erica demanded. Her outcry was supported by the others, all of them outraged. Boyd winced, visibly regretting his choice of words.

“ _ Amazing _ movie.” He corrected, squeezing Erica’s hand. “Very amazing.”

“Damn right.” Erica said firmly.

“Well . . . “ Stiles grinned up at his boyfriend, breathless, “you know what  _ else _ is amazing—”

“Shut the  _ fuck  _ up, Stilinski.”

“ _ Make me _ , Shittmore.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next up: MORE pack bonding!


	7. Board Games

“One, two, three—ha! Four, five! _Santa’s Workshop_ , bitches!” Stiles slammed his monopoly piece onto the board. “Scotty, give the pretty lady our cartoon money.” 

Scott sighed, reaching across the board to give Lydia a five hundred dollar monopoly bill—after _the incident_ , Lydia and Derek were the only pair all ten of them had trusted to be in charge of the bank. If they hadn't drawn names for partners, Stiles would have partnered with Derek while Lydia and Allison probably would have ended up with the job.

It was game night, and stakes were incredibly high—the winners got to take home a cheap tin of Christmas candy Stiles had dug out of a Walmart bargain bin. Unsurprisingly, competition was fierce. For now, the red and white tin sat in the center of the board with the drawing cards stacked on top of it.

“Nobody likes a sore winner, Stiles.” Scott reminded him, taking their change from Lydia. The bills for _Elf_ monopoly had cartoon animals in the center as opposed to numbers, while the spaces sported locations like _Conference Room_ , _Central Park Woods_ , and yes, _Santa’s Workshop_.

“Uh, they do when the alternative is Jackson owning half the board.” Stiles gestured vaguely to the board.

“I don’t know, I’m pretty happy.” Jackson smirked, casually fanning through his thick stack of fake money.

“Man, seems to me like you’re the only one with a problem here, Stiles.” Isaac said innocently. Isaac was on Jackson’s team and was much happier about it now that they were winning.

“I don’t have any problems.” Scott beamed. Scott, unfortunately, was too busy gazing into Isaac’s doe eyes to back Stiles up. 

Defeated, Stiles settled for eyeing Jackson and Isaac with contempt. Beside them, Erica and Allison were in a close second and whispering quietly, probably plotting the demise of the other teams. It didn’t matter, because all of them were cheating, but at least the rest of them were subtle about it. Hell, Boyd and Malia had been so stealthy about their embezzlement that no one had noticed until the bank ran empty.

“Here,” Derek reached over, handing Stiles the property card, “that gives you all three of the light blue properties, do you want to get an apartment?”

“You know it, boo.” Stiles winked, blowing Derek a kiss.

“Never call me that again.” Derek barely managed to keep a straight face. He took Stiles and Scott’s monopoly cash while Lydia handed them a miniature apartment, ending their turn.

While Derek and Lydia had been put in charge of the bank for the do-over game, Boyd and Malia’s sleigh pawn had been imprisoned in the jail square for their embezzlement crimes. Three rounds had gone by until they’d managed to get out on their previous roll, and now it was finally their turn.

“One. Two. Three.” Malia stopped on _Candy Cane Forest._ “Can we buy that one?”

“No, that’s our property.” Allison told her. “You owe us $200.” Erica nodded in agreement.

“Nope!” Malia whipped an UNO reverse card from her pocket and proudly set it down on top of the property. Boyd snorted.

“What?” Erica protested. “That’s illegal, you can’t do that!”

“Malia, that’s not even the same game.” Allison said.

“It’s the same color.” Malia shrugged. “Red matches red. Reverse. Give me your money.”

“This shouldn’t even be a conversation, you can’t do that!” Erica argued. “It’s against the rules!”

“I thought the rules were an _abstract concept_.” Jackson said smugly, mocking an earlier phrase from when Erica had talked her way out of jail. Anything to put Erica and Allison further behind him and Isaac.

“Does it say in the rules that you can’t use UNO cards?” Malia raised an eyebrow, skeptical.

“Babe!” Erica exclaimed, looking for support. Boyd shrugged. Erica scowled at him.

“Judges?” Stiles asked. All eyes turned to Lydia and Derek, who exchanged a silent, meaningful look.

“ . . . we’ll allow it.” Derek said finally.

“What?!” Erica demanded. “This is because we’re winning, isn’t it!”.

“We’ll allow it,” Lydia continued, “on the condition that any remaining UNO cards not be used. Additionally, from this point forward, cards from other games may not be used. Allison, Erica, give Boyd and Malia $200.”

“You can’t punish us for being good at monopoly!” Allison protested.

“Them’s the rules, bitches.” Malia held out her hand, obviously thrilled. “Pay up.”

“God, I love monopoly.” Stiles sighed.

“I don’t.” Derek said. “Any game that brings out the worst in people shouldn’t be played in a group setting.”

“ _That_ is exactly why I love it.” Stiles grinned. “And _those_ are the words of a sore loser.”

“ _We_ wouldn’t be losing if you had let us play Candy Land like you promised.” Scott pouted.

“Next time, bro.” Stiles patted him on the back. “Next time.”

Jackson and Isaac won the candy tin . . . then Erica and Malia stole it from Jackson's car.


	8. Chapter 8

“Your existence is a sin.”

“Your culinary choices make me sick.”

“ _ My _ choices? What soulless  _ monster _ —” Stiles flicked a marshmallow at his boyfriend’s head, “—makes hot chocolate with  _ water _ ?” 

It was late at night and the two of them were drinking hot chocolate in their winter pajamas. The kitchen counter was sticky with sugar, and Derek made a face as the marshmallow projectile bounced off his cheek. He picked it up from the counter and flicked it back at Stiles, who caught it in his mouth and swallowed it without chewing, much to Derek’s disgust.

“And  _ salt _ ?” Stiles continued to whine, obviously devastated. “What kind of demon puts salt in hot chocolate?”

“Demons can’t ingest—”

“Derek Hale,” Stiles threatened, “if you show me the directions on that packet and it says to ruin your hot chocolate by adding fucking salt to it—”

“The way you make it is wrong.” Derek cut him off.

“No, it’s not!” Stiles’ next marshmallow projectile missed Derek completely and stuck to one of the snowman salt and pepper shakers sitting on the counter. The one with the top hat is pepper, Stiles thinks. Derek snorted. Out of spite, Stiles looked him dead in the eye and grabbed a fistful of marshmallows out of the bag, cramming them into his  _ LIT AF  _ menorah mug. Hot chocolate splashed onto the counter in his vigor, and Derek looked deliberately down into his own mug, unable to watch.

“It already has chocolate and marshmallows in it,” Derek argued, wrinkling his nose, “making it with full fat milk doubles the calories. It’s like drinking fudge.”

“Fudge is fudging awesome!” Stiles hit him in the side with the half-empty bag of marshmallows, engaging in an extremely one sided pillow fight. Derek frowned disapprovingly. Stiles shot him a pointed look.  _ What are you gonna do about it, huh? _

“If you try to secretly add eggnog to my drinks this year, I’ll shave your head in your sleep.” Derek said cooly, looking Stiles directly in the eyes as he blew over the top of his hot chocolate. On the long list of things teenage Stiles would have been shocked to see Derek Hale do, willingly drinking out of a reindeer head mug from Pottery Barn had to be up there. Had Stiles bought him that mug? Yes. Did Derek pretend to hate it but secretly love it? Absolutely.

Stiles stuck his tongue out. “Jokes on you, Grinchy. I  _ rocked _ that look.”

“You  _ rocked _ looking like that evil kid from _ Toy Story _ ?” Derek raised an eyebrow. “Your yearbook pictures would beg to differ.”

“. . . shut up.”

“You were a sad, strange little man and you have my pity.”

“Get fucked.”

“Are you offering?” Derek set his mug down on the counter, leaning back against it as he grinned at Stiles’ flustered expression. Stiles bit his lip, trying not to laugh.

“Are you coming on to me in Christmas jammies?” He snorted. Derek blinked, then looked down at the bright green and red stripes on his pants with a scowl. 

“I’m wearing these because  _ you _ bought them for me.” He said, frowning. Stiles softened, reaching up to pat Derek’s cheek.

“I know, baby.” Stiles kissed him sweetly. “Thank you. You look so pretty.”

“You taste like marshmallow.” Derek said quietly.

Stiles beamed, kissing him again. “Why, thank you.”

“Not a compliment.”

“Whatever you say, babe.”


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! Decided to shorten this series so I can focus on this other fic I’ve been working on for a while. I might add more chapters on later but who knows?? Plus this is basically crack fic at this point and there’s only so many chapters of crack you can write, lol. Much love!! Lmk if you have any ideas!!

Derek comes home to a large piece of garbage sitting on his kitchen counter. A large, tacky, extremely confusing piece of garbage. In the kitchen, Scott and Stiles were leaning up against the counter while the thing sat between them.

“Why.” Derek managed, horrified and intrigued at the same time. 

“It’s a Christmas tree!” Stiles beamed. Scott, who was sitting beside him, had a matching smile and cheerfully patted the christmas tree. “Isn’t she gorgeous? It’s Scott’s! I made it for him! What do you think?”

“It’s . . . nice.” Derek managed, wary.

“Dope, right?” Stiles grinned, reaching across the counter to high five Scott.

“Sure?” Derek raised an eyebrow. It was a piñata. A two foot tall piñata shaped like a rainbow tree with fuzzy silver garland wrapped around it to mimic the pine needles. A strand of twinkling lights was wound around the tree as well, with a large star-shaped picture of the Starman from Mario Kart taped to the top. It was almost pretty, but mostly it was ugly.

“Come on Der, where’s your holiday spirit?” Stiles laughed. “Besides, he’s not gonna use it, that’s not the point. Just like we’re not gonna use this little baby.” Stiles reached under his chair and pulled out . . . something.

“What the hell is that?” Derek stared at it. It looked like a bunch of children’s toys nailed to a wooden plank, but Derek could never be sure with Stiles.

“A dinosaur menorah!” Stiles said brightly. Derek squinted at it. If it was a menorah, it looked like it had been made by a child who’d gotten into their father’s toolbox—eight toy dinosaurs had been glued down onto a piece of plywood, four of them standing on either side of an undeniably ugly tyrannosaurus rex.

“I brought it! It’s tradition!” Scott beams.

“Whose.” Derek doesn’t look impressed. They already had a menorah, a nice one. It was gold, and it was currently set with classic white candles while it stood in the center of their dining table. The “dinosaur menorah” Scott brought them looked like something from a kindergarten craft fair. There were birthday candles drilled into the dinosaurs' heads, for crying out loud.

“Ours!” Stiles beamed at him. “When we were seven, Scotty learned I celebrated Hanukkah and then the next day he came to school with a menorah he made me out of dry macaroni pasta and glitter glue.”

“And then you made me that sketchy-looking pipe cleaner Christmas tree.” Scott laughed.

“What can I say?” Stiles flipped his hair. “I’m an artist.” 

“Stiles,” Derek started, “it doesn’t exactly . . . match our other things.”

“Babe,” Stiles rolled his eyes, “I told you. We’re not gonna use it. We’re gonna use my mom’s menorah like we always do. These are just for fun.”

“Dude,” Scott grinned, “do you remember the year you found me that tree that was just made of super gross candy cane flavors?”

“Ugh, don’t remind me.” Stiles retched. “Those pickle flavored ones were an outright sin.”

“Pickle?” Derek asked weakly.

“Yup!” Stiles said brightly. Then he turned back to Scott. “Wait, bro, do you remember that men-orah you got me?”

“Do I want to know?” Derek eyed the objects on the counter, scared of what could be more “impressive” then these.

“That was the year he told me he was bisexual.” Scott said. “I bought a plastic menorah from the dollar store and taped shirtless pictures of hot celebrity dudes to it.”

Derek was immediately sorry he’d asked.

“Ah! It was literally and figuratively hot.” Stiles sighed theatrically. “I’ve never felt so creeped out yet so supported.”

“Thanks, bro.” Scott smiled. He reached down in an attempt to move the piñata and give Stiles an awkward, across-the-counter hug, but—

“Shit, Stiles, this is really heavy. Did you actually fill this piñata?”

“Absolutely I did.”

“What’s in it?”

“It’s a surprise! But . . . uh, maybe don’t open it in front of your mom.”

“Noted.”


	10. Snowman

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, I know it basically never snows in California and if it did it probably wouldn't happen this early in the winter but let's pretend because Sterek in the snow is just too cute to pass up.

Stiles pressed his face against the window, his cheek sticking to the glass as he beamed at the snowflakes falling down from the sky. They were flurries, barely even there. But it was snowing.  _ Snowing _ .

“ _ Snow _ .” Stiles breathed, his breath fogging up the glass. Derek watched him from the couch, smiling fondly. The layer of snow on the ground was barely there, a thin sparkling white dusting the tips of the grass blades. 

“You look like you want to go outside and make the world's tiniest snowman.” Derek teased. Instantly Stiles’ head whipped towards him, his eyes glittering.

“ _ Snowman _ .”

Stiles got up from their living room window seat and went straight for the door, yanking the nearest coat—Derek’s—off the coat rack and shoving it on. Derek watched him go for a moment, then sighed. He got up from the couch, setting his book down on the cushions before wrapping a chunky knitted blanket around his shoulders and following Stiles outside.

Small, thin snowflakes fluttered down, and Stiles twirled around in the front yard trying to catch them in his tongue. Derek shuffled out into the yard, squinting and wearing rain boots without socks as he trudged out to stand beside Stiles. He was more excited for Stiles than he was about the actual snow—Derek had gotten more than his fair share of snow during his years in New York. Stiles though. It hadn’t snowed in this part of California in years, and Stiles could probably count the times he had seen snow in his life on one hand.

“Look!” Stiles had kneeled down in the wet, freezing grass and started to push the pathetic amount of snow on the ground into a damp hill. “Look Der, it’s a snow thing. Help me make him a snowman. Help me.”

Derek mentally said goodbye to his favorite jeans as he knelt down beside Stiles. The cold and wet of the fresh snow seeped in through the fabric, instantly soaking his knees. Neither of them were wearing gloves.

Stiles scooped up more snow with his bare hands, determinedly trying to shape the lumps into balls for the base of his snowman. There was barely a frost on the ground but Stiles was making due, his fingernails caked in dirt and bits of grass.

“Pretty.” He said softly, concentrating hard on his future snowman.

“It sure is, Stiles.” Derek kissed his boyfriend’s flushed cheek. Stiles beamed at him, then turned back to his tiny snowman.

“He’s so lumpy.” Stiles whispered proudly. His snowman was slowly falling to the side, a miniature leaning tower. Stiles gently pushed the snowman upright, then turned to Derek. “What do you think?”

“I think he needs arms.” Derek said, because honestly without arms there was no way to differentiate the snowman from a pile of dirt. Not to fault Stiles’ artistic ability, of course, but he only had so much to work with.

“Right.” Stiles nodded. “Arms. I can do that.”

He ripped two blades of grass out of the ground and stuck them into the sides of the snowman, then tore another blade in half and pushed the smaller piece into the snowman’s head.

“Nose.” He said seriously. Derek nodded. “Do you see any rocks? For eyes?”

“I see  _ grass _ .” Derek said. “Do you want to use grass again?”

“Yeah, okay.” Stiles stuck more grass in the snowman’s face. Then he frowned and reangled the grass blades to be flat instead of upright. “Derek.”

“Yes?”

“No,  _ he’s _ Derek.” Stiles nodded at the snowman, whose diagonal grass blade eyes suddenly looked like angry eyebrows.

Derek glared at Stiles, which didn’t help his case. “No.”

“Yes!”

“No.”

“Twins.” Stiles beamed, his eyes shining with glee.

Derek scowled, then started scooping up snow to make a snowman of his own. Stiles watched him, suspicious. Then glared when he realized what was happening.

“Oh, I do  _ not _ look like that! Stop it! Stop it!” Stiles reached for the snowman but Derek swatted his hand away.

“If you keep attacking me, I’ll never be able to fix your misshapen head.” He warned.

“The head is the only part that looks okay!”

“I know, it needs to be more deformed.” Derek said.

Stiles, petulant, scowled and bent a blade of grass in half then stuck it on Derek snowman for a mouth. “He’s frowning because you insulted his boyfriend. How do you feel about that, huh? What do you have to say for yourself?” Derek pursed his lips, thinking. "Well?"

“ . . . why are his eyebrows so much bigger than his mouth?”

“Because he’s mad at you!”


	11. Bows

Music played softly from Stiles’ phone while Derek slept on the couch. The weighted blanket Derek had gotten Stiles for Hanukkah was draped over the two of them where they were laying down on the couch. Derek had fallen asleep knitting, and Stiles hadn't had the heart to wake him. He’d moved the knitting needles, of course. Then he’d decided that Derek looked far too boring laying down like that and, as Stiles had been in the middle of wrapping presents, he’d taken it upon himself to provide his boyfriend with the adequate holiday apparel.

Derek’s head was resting against the couch cushion, the blanket caringly drawn up to his neck. And, resting on top of Derek, was a small army of multicolored gift bows. Blues and reds, greens and whites, golds and purples—all of them laid out in a rainbow ribbon river across the top of the blanket.  _ Beautiful _ . And it was almost done.

“ _ Twenty seven _ .” Stiles whispered quietly to himself, carefully, reaching behind his back to grab the next bow. Most of them were rather large, and if Stiles had his way then the biggest one was about to be in the middle of Derek’s forehead. “ _ Twenty _ —”

“Stiles?”

Stiles froze, his hand halfway to Derek’s face, looking beyond guilty. Immediately, Stiles grabbed a handful of bows and tossed them over the couch, letting them flutter to the floor and out of sight. Still, a large number of bows remained. Derek groaned, his eyes fluttering open as he sat up. Then he looked down when a kaleidoscope of ribbons slid off into his lap. Derek blinked, then squinted around at his surroundings.

“Did you . . . wrap me?” Derek managed, utterly confused. Honestly? Stiles kind of had. He’d even tucked Derek into a blanket burrito.

“I did not.” Stiles said airily. “I merely made an attempt to enhance your sleeping experience by providing you with a wide selection of tasteful ribbons. Do you feel enhanced? On a scale of one to ten, how would you rate your decoration experience?”

“ . . . you decorated me?” Derek’s brows furrowed together. Stiles scratched the back of his head, sheepish. Derek sniffed, his hand scrubbing over his face. Stiles whined, because Derek looked absolutely adorable and now he felt bad for pulling the world’s most innocent prank.

“Happy Holidays?” Stiles offered, biting his lip.

Derek’s expression didn’t change. Stiles wilted. Then Derek picked up one of the bows, peeled off the backing, and stuck it to Stiles’ nose. Stiles jerked back in surprise, then went cross-eyed trying to look at it. He laughed.

“Alright. Fair’s fair.” Stiles grinned. “Just count yourself lucky I ran out of stickers. They were some serious business too, scratch and sniff’s all the rage right now?”

Derek raised an eyebrow. “Is knowing sticker-trends a teacher thing or a Stiles thing?”

“It’s an everyone thing, Derek. Get with the times.” Stiles pulled the bow off of his nose and stuck it to Derek’s cheek. “Old man.”

“When your mental age catches up to your actual age, let me know.” Derek said, brushing the rest of the bows off and laying back down.

“Excuse you!” Stiles protested. “I happen to be extremely mature for my age!”

“Your nightstand has candy-flavored condoms in it.”

“They’re not candy-flavored, they’re bubblegum-flavored.” Stiles argued.

“That’s worse.” Derek countered, because it was. “Who are those even for? It’s not like we need them.”

“I got them as a gag gift from a holiday party.”

“I can hear when you lie, Stiles.”

“ . . . I got them from the dollar bin at the drugstore.” Stiles admitted. “Among other things, so lemme know if you’re in the mood for some steamy bacon—”

“Finish that sentence and I’ll never speak to you again.” Derek grumbled, rolling over and burying his face in the couch pillows. The back of his hair was sticking up.

“—breakfast food in the morning.” Stiles said. Derek grunted at him, obviously not buying it.

A few minutes later, Derek was asleep again.

This time, Stiles got up to thirty four before Derek woke up.


	12. Presents

“Where.”

“No.”

“Are.”

“ _ No _ .”

“My.”

“Stiles, get out of there.” Derek insisted.

“ _ Presents _ .” Stiles finished. He crossed his arms, pouting under the dim light of their motion sensor wall lights.

It was the middle of the night and Stiles was sitting cross-legged on the floor of their hall closet, his mouth set in a determined line. Derek had been woken up by a series of loud noises coming from downstairs, only to come down and find Stiles had knocked over their cleaning supplies in an attempt to find where Derek was keeping his Hanukkah presents. It was like his birthday all over again.

“Hanukkah will be coming soon enough.” Derek sighed. “Please just—“

“The looking is half the fun!” Stiles whined, slouching back against the wall of the closet. “It’s not  _ my _ fault living with me has made you smarter. You’ve obviously chosen an excellent hiding spot this year and just because it’s taking me longer to find them, it doesn’t mean—”

“Stiles, you will get the rest of presents on the days you’re meant to get them.” Derek insisted. “Now come back to bed or I will make you.”

“Was that meant to be an ominous threat, because your tone indicated it was more along the lines of a salacious promise.” Stiles still hadn’t moved from his seat on the floor. He was surrounded by scattered cans of no-scent cleaning spray and neutralizing air freshener.

Honestly, Derek wished he could say he was surprised. Living with Stiles had an endless list of advantages but, over the past few weeks, the very short list of disadvantages had grown to include being woken up in the middle of the night by his boyfriend digging through kitchen cabinets and turning over couch cushions to look for presents. It was ridiculous, and more importantly it was a waste of time because everything Derek had bought for him this year was hidden in the bathroom cabinets of Lydia’s apartment.

Derek sighed, his head leaning forward to rest against the doorframe of the closet. “You can’t stay in the closet forever, Stiles.”

“Great, now I feel like I’m in highschool all over again.” Stiles muttered. Derek scowled at him. Middle-of-the-night Derek was severely lacking in the sense of humor department. Though middle-of-the-day Derek usually was too, to be honest. Stiles winced. “Yeesh. Tough crowd.”

“You’re a little shit,” Derek told him, “and I’m going back to bed with or without you.”

“ _ Oh _ no you don’t. Don’t you dare try reverse psychology on me, mister.” Stiles pointed an accusing finger up at him as he struggled to stand up—cabs were everywhere, coat sleeves were hitting him in the face . . . god, it was a mess. 

“I’m not trying reverse psychology, I’m too tired for that.” Derek said slowly.

“That’s exactly what a reverse psychologist would want me to think.” Stiles, who had finally managed to stand back up, brushed himself off. “Cause if they were—if they were reversing me. . . psychologizing my . . . shit, you’re right, I’m too tired to make words right now.”

“And whose fault is that?” Derek gently pulled Stiles out of the closet, looking him over to make sure none of the falling cans had injured him.

“Yours.” Stiles said grumpily. “For being so good at hiding things.”

“Have you considered the option that maybe you’re not getting any more presents because you’re an asshole who scares people to death at two in the morning?” Derek rubbed Stiles’ shoulders as they slumped forward, reaching last him to turn the closet light off.

“Nope.” Stiles said brightly, leaning down to gently knock his head against Derek’s shoulder. “Cause I got you loads and loads of presents so that wouldn’t be very nice of you, now would it?”

“I told you not to get me anything.” Derek said quietly, carefully herding Stiles up the stairs. Stiles rolled his eyes.

“And  _ I  _ told  _ you _ that you’re getting a hundred presents because you’re the best boyfriend ever and you deserve everything that’s ever existed.” Stiles said firmly. “So suck it.”

“I’m too tired for that right now.” Derek said.

“ . . . I love you.”

“I love you too, but I’m still not telling you where they are.”

“Damn it, Derek!”

**Author's Note:**

> For clarification, Derek’s family celebrated Christmas while Stiles celebrates both Christmas and Hanukkah because his mother was Jewish, but I see Stiles as being overly enthusiastic about both holidays. However, since I only celebrate Christmas, this fic will be more centered towards Christmas. If you have any ideas, please let me know!!


End file.
